


Idle Hands

by Cousin Shelley (CousinShelley)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad Cooking, Domestic, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:28:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27083404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CousinShelley/pseuds/Cousin%20Shelley
Summary: John's comfortable enough around Sherlock that he forgets himself and does something neither of them expects.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 17
Kudos: 281
Collections: Little Black Dress Flash 2020





	Idle Hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HogwartsToAlexandria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HogwartsToAlexandria/gifts).



> Set anytime before _The Reichenbach Fall._
> 
> Русский перевод : [Праздные руки](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27175874) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)

John had run down to the shop for tea and ended up with a few more things than he’d meant to buy, as usual. How two grown Englishmen let themselves run out of tea was beyond him, and he supposed he ought to be a little ashamed at that, and maybe how easily the chocolate biscuits had jumped into his hand as well. He decided not to bother with shame, he’d take a few extra walks that week, and was halfway up the stairs when Mrs. Hudson called up after him. “I’ll see you in about twenty, dear.”

She disappeared with a giddy wave before he could answer. Was she going to inspect their flat? She never really did that. She was there often enough for various reasons that she knew what everything looked like, and didn’t hesitate to point out the mess or anything else that concerned her. 

He shrugged and headed upstairs to find Sherlock in the kitchen, fussing over a bowl of something that looked like it was struggling to be dough and failing. Some of it was balled up in several wells of a muffin tin. Flour appeared to be staging a takeover and coated almost every surface, including Sherlock’s robe and his hair. 

John stared, his shopping bag dangling from two fingertips. Sherlock didn’t knead dough or mix ingredients or use appliances. Had he gone to the shop and slipped into another dimension on his way back? “What the hell are you—are you _cooking_?”

“Baking, technically. Scones.”

“Why? And is that how you make scones?” he said, his voice tilting up.

“You don’t approve of me baking?”

“Yes, of course I think it’s fine, I just don’t understand why you suddenly decided to try your hand.”

“I’m bored, John.” He rolled dough into another ball and slapped it into the muffin tin. The oven buzzed to indicate it had heated to the right temperature. “ _Bored_.”

John was sure you didn’t roll scone dough into a ball, and peeked closer at the tin. It’d probably be okay, but the texture might be off. 

What was he thinking? Of course the texture would be off. Sherlock didn’t know the first thing about cooking as far as John could tell. “My god, you must be dangerously bored to resort to this. Wish I’d known, might have staged some kind of intervention.” 

“I’m not baking because I’m bored. I’m baking because I was bored and fired at the wall, and Mrs. Hudson was so cross with me about it, I decided to invite her to join us for tea and scones to make her feel better.”

The new bullet hole in the wall above the couch was higher and seemed somehow larger than the others. 

“She looked like she might cry, and I thought this would be a nice gesture. It’s not very often Mrs. Hudson uses coarse language, but she did today.” Sherlock paused and dropped his voice like he was about to impart a secret. “She called me a horse’s arse, John.”

“Wow. Good thing I bought tea. We were out.”

“How did we run out of tea?”

“Your guess.” John put the bag on the table and crossed his arms, eager to see more cooking-in-action. It would probably have to hold him over for years, so he intended to enjoy it.

“You must have read my mind. Do we have any biscuits in case these aren’t—”

“Edible? Yes, I luckily bought those, too.”

Sherlock leveled a glare at him. “In case these aren’t _to her taste_. Of course they’ll be edible. Recipes are nothing more than a set of step-by-step instructions anyone could follow.” He nodded at the recipe on the table.

“And yet I don’t think you did.” John picked it up to check, then felt smug that even he had known you don’t roll scone dough into balls. He scanned the ingredients. “How did we have all this yet run out of tea? Did you make sure the eggs were good and the cream wasn’t off?”

Sherlock glanced between John, the refrigerator and the oven just long enough that John was sure he hadn’t. “I would have smelled something. It’ll be fine.”

John hummed and tilted his head. 

“Don’t you trust me?” 

“I have opened that refrigerator door before to find a severed head staring back at me. So while I trust you with my life, Sherlock, you really can’t fault me for not entirely trusting you with ingredients.”

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder. “Fair.”

John watched him put washing up liquid in the bowl and run water into it, wash his hands, dry them, brush his hands together as if he’d done a solid day’s labor, and start to walk away from the oven. 

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Might you consider _baking_ them?”

“Ah!” Sherlock grabbed the pan and opened the oven door. 

“Wait, it does say here to refrigerate the dough first.”

“No time. That’s why I put them in this tin, so they won’t spread out.”

“I didn’t even know we had a tin like . . .” A giggle bubbled up as John put the pieces together. “You had to borrow that from Mrs. Hudson, didn’t you?”

“Flour, too. And baking powder. Cinnamon. A few other things.” He waved a hand as if swatting a fly. “I think she’s just happy at the idea of someone making something for her for a change.”

“Right, yes. Well she said she’d be here in twenty, and that was probably ten minutes ago.”

Sherlock popped the scones into the oven, then decided to turn the pan sideways. He jerked his hand back with a hiss. “Damn!”

“You all right?” John closed the oven door and took Sherlock’s wrist in his hand. 

“Touched the side.”

John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s reddened knuckle, then sucked lightly against it as he would if it had been his own. He wet it with his tongue and then blew a thin stream of air over it to cool it.

Mid-blow, he realized what he’d done. 

Instinct had kicked in, and he had treated Sherlock’s hand the same as his own. Little about that surprised him. They’d clicked together almost immediately, and the longer John lived there the more he felt drawn to Sherlock. He’d tried not to think about it too hard or too long, not sure analyzing it and fretting about it was a healthy way to spend time. 

It might be something worth revisiting when he had a chance, though, now that he’d slobbered on Sherlock’s hand without thinking. 

Sherlock’s mouth had dropped open as he stared at John, his eyes hooded. John kept blowing a thin, tight stream of air across the damp skin. He’d committed already, hadn’t he? He supposed he should have stopped, maybe acted horrified for doing something so intimate and frankly inappropriate, but he didn’t. The next few moments were probably going to be awkward, and him turning guilty about it would only make it worse. 

When the skin had dried, he gently pressed the hand toward Sherlock. “Still burning?”

Sherlock didn’t answer for an uncomfortably long moment while he continued to stare. “A bit.”

John gently pushed his hand under the faucet and turned the cold tap on. “I don’t suppose we have ice, but there might be some frozen veg if we need it. At Mrs. Hudson's, if nothing else.”

He held Sherlock’s fingers under the stream of water, thinking the whole time _he’s a grown man who can do this himself, let go of him_ , yet he didn’t. “Better?” he asked, finally releasing him.

Sherlock made a noncommittal sound, then turned the water off and shook his hand, flinging water over the countertop. 

“I’m, um, sorry about that, by the way. Just instinct.”

“Instinct?” Sherlock asked, his voice calm and steady, and holding no accusation. “To put people’s fingers in your mouth?”

John sighed. Maybe it would get terribly awkward no matter what he said. “Not _people’s_ , no.”

“Just mine?”

John opened his mouth to answer, then shook his head, unsure for a moment what to say without making things worse. “Did you set a timer for those scones?” He examined the piece of paper with the recipe, only then realizing it was Mrs. Hudson’s handwriting, and set the oven timer for a few minutes less than the recipe called for. 

Sherlock blew on his own finger for a moment, then held his hand out toward John, his expression almost the same as when he was trying to solve a murder. “It feels better when you do it.”

“When I . . .” 

“Yes.”

John took Sherlock’s hand and leaned close to blow air across the skin of his knuckle.

Sherlock’s expression went from puzzle-solving to one John had told himself he’d imagined when he’d noticed Sherlock watching him from across the room, or next to him in a car or a restaurant. His gaze was familiar, comforting, as if he were taking in something he cared for. Something he wanted to keep track of. 

John had chalked it up to wishful thinking when he’d started to think along those lines. But now with Sherlock staring into him, sleepy-eyed and dusted with flour, John understood he’d seen and known the truth of those looks all along even if he hadn’t been able to admit it to himself. 

There seemed to be no reason now to do anything but what felt right, so he pressed his lips to Sherlock’s knuckle again, teasing the skin with his tongue before blowing against it. “It’s not going to blister.”

“How can you tell?”

“I’m a doctor. Don’t you trust me?” He flashed a grin at Sherlock and pressed his lips against a knuckle that didn’t get burned, then the fleshy part of Sherlock’s palm, the inside of his wrist. 

“I trust you,” Sherlock whispered.

“Good. You should.” John smiled at him, and throwing caution to the wind, stepped forward and kissed him. He blew a quick breath against Sherlock’s mouth. “Just in case you burned your lips. Or something.”

“Good thinking,” Sherlock said as he put his hands on John’s shoulders. “Can’t be too careful.”

“No. Burns can be serious thi—” 

Sherlock’s kiss cut him off. John stepped into it, turning them until Sherlock’s back was against the counter. He dragged his lips away from Sherlock’s mouth to follow the line of his jaw. Then Mrs. Hudson’s voice came from outside their door, followed by a few quick knocks and the squeak of the hinge. Sherlock cleared his throat and sat at the table, while John leaned against the wall. 

“I love the gesture, Sherlock, really,” she said as she stepped in carrying a plate, “but I thought I’d go ahead and bring some from my kitchen, in case . . . you know.”

“In case they’re rocks,” John supplied, “or taste like a gutter?”

Mrs. Hudson wrinkled her nose and nodded. “Wwwyes.”

Sherlock grinned at both of them, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “If mine are delicious, I am going to expect groveling.”

Mrs. Hudson chuckled and sat, so John put the kettle on for tea. They talked about very little of importance and had a wonderful time. Sherlock’s scones were predictably terrible, but Sherlock ate one down to the last crumb as a matter of principle. At one point, Mrs. Hudson noticed him rubbing the pink knuckle of his middle finger. 

“Did you scald yourself, dear?”

“Oh, barely.”

“You should put something on that. Something soothing.” Mrs. Hudson put another of her scones on each of their plates and poured them all another cup of tea. 

Sherlock met John’s gaze and brought his knuckle to his lips, held it there for a few seconds, testing the skin with his tongue. “Already did,” he said, the half-smile he aimed at John full of promise. After Mrs. Hudson went back downstairs, John thought with a little burst of anticipation, Sherlock would no longer need to worry about being bored. 


End file.
